


Fixing You, Fixing Me

by matanee



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Couch Sex, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Neighbors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i can't even explain why, loads of kissing, this got very poetic halfway through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matanee/pseuds/matanee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It would be so easy to just... go ahead and kiss him. To shut his mouth with mine so he wouldn't ask more questions. So he would understand that I care because I like him. I don't even know him, but it wouldn't matter, because he couldn't ask questions. Because I would be kissing him, and hopefully he would be kissing me. And that would solve everything.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Damen takes care of his drunk neighbour. After that, he just can't stay away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing You, Fixing Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaisusbelli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaisusbelli/gifts).



> This is an awfully belated Christmas present to my absolutely wonderful friend Anna. She drew me a beautiful portrait of Laurent and this is my attempt of a present in return. I hope you will like it darling, I love you tons! <3
> 
> This is my first time writing AU about these two and I've been working on this fic for months due to exams and my busy schedule at uni. My native language is Hungarian so forgive me for any mistakes in there, I tried to pinpoint them the best I could.
> 
> Enjoy!

"You're laughing too loud."

This is it. This is how it starts, with him at my door, his hair a blond mess. His eyes are tired but cold, impossibly blue, and I stand there in front of him like a fool. I should feel insulted by the way he addresses me, yet, all I can do is stare.

It's like I haven't seen him before. I'm sure I have. I just-- I wasn't really looking, I guess.

"Sorry," I blurt out. It doesn't seem to touch him. He swallows. His shoulders are hunched forward just the slightest bit, and he nearly disappears inside his oversized white shirt. He apparently didn't plan to come over.

"The walls are thin enough already. I listen to the couple on the fourth floor having sex 24/7 and I'm positive that on the second floor the guy keeps killing his girlfriends."

I wonder what his name must be. I feel dumb for not knowing. How long have we been living next to each other now? Five months? It's kinda ridiculous that I have never once introduced myself. Although, the same could be told about him.

I put my weight on my other leg, still holding onto the door with one hand. I can very clearly remember seeing a tall guy with messy brown hair entering and leaving the flat next door multiple times in the past. Not once this guy, though.

Weird.

"I'm sorry," I repeat and I kinda want to punch myself for it when his facial expression hardens into a mixture of pity and annoyance. "I'm watching Modern Family. It's hard-- not to laugh. But I will try to keep it down."

I notice again how sleep deprived he looks. I'm sure I could cut my hand on his cheekbones if I decided to slap him for some reason, but that's definitely not my intention. Still, the lowkey heart attack I'm having at the moment reminds me how my type this guy actually is, and I really should not be thinking about that right now, at all.

My pants are not loose enough to hide a boner.

"Which season?"

It's definitely not something I expect him to say, but it lures a small smile on my face anyway. His expression is still the same, and I realize just in time that I'm staring.

"Sixth."

He nods in understanding, his gaze suddenly dropping from mine. Even his eyelashes are impossibly blond, and I stop myself before I could lick my lips instinctively.

Gosh, this guy is magnificent. Weird, maybe a bit rude, but magnificent.

"I'm relieved you're through with the first three seasons then," he nods again, sucking in a shallow breath before looking up at me again. His glare could kill a man. It sends cold shivers through my entire body. "When it was actually funny."

Then, before I could come up with a decent comeback in defense of my favourite show, he turns around and walks back into his apartment.

I fight the urge to turn the next episode on and watch it on full volume, laughing my ass off, but I sigh and go to bed instead.

My last thought is him, stepping on a Lego in the dark, barefoot. I just hope karma will see that it's absolutely called for.

  
*

  
I don't see him for about three weeks. Then, on a Thursday night, there is a knock on my door.

I wonder why people ignore the doorbell most of the time, before I open up the door. I'm slightly dumbfounded to find a boy on the other side, barely even reaching up to my chest. He's about twelve, light brown hair and impossibly blue eyes.

That reminds me of someone.

"Can I help you?" I ask, obviously confused. I don't really have child guests. As a matter of fact, I don't even know any children. I'm thinking about what that might say about me as a person.

"I need help."

Okay. My eyebrows rise, then furrow.

"With what?"

"With a body."

I don't question him, even though every instinct in my body says I should. I'm a little bit scared when he starts walking and I notice that he's leading me to my mysterious neighbour's flat. He doesn't speak to me, he just leads the way, and he doesn't wait up when I hesitate at the door. Can I just barge into this guy's home without invitation, just blindly following some child I don't even know? He apparently knows what he's doing and where he's going, but that's not true for me. At all.

It's not even true in my own flat. Or in my own life. Let alone in someone else's.

Fuck this.

I decide to go after him. The flat is the mirrored version of my own, so it's not difficult to figure it out that I'm being led to the bathroom. All I see from the corner of my eyes is mess, clothes on the floor and garbage everywhere - still, I don't have too much time to take in my surroundings or the details of the rooms I'm walking through.

I'm way too focused on the body lying in the bathtub not too far from me, with water up to his neck. His blond hair is stuck to his face, and one of his arms dangle over the edge of the tub. His skin is almost as pale as the tiles of the floor.

The kid stands aside when I rush to the body of my neighbour, my first instinct to check for vital signs. My heart is beating like crazy, for a very different reason than the last time I saw him. He didn't look too-- alive, even then, but he looks worse now. I release an obviously relieved sigh when I'm sure he's still breathing and still alive, and I fall to my knees, slightly shaking with adrenaline.

"He's not dead," I hear the kid say, like I'm the idiot for freaking out. I could hit him right now, but I'm not the abusive type, so I just clench my teeth and send him an ugly glare. He shakes his head in disbelief. "I can't pull him out of the tub on my own. That's why I called you over."

"Is he high?" I ask, trying to pull myself on my feet. It's more difficult than I thought. I hit my knees pretty badly, but the aftershock of the panic that came over me is worse than the pain.

"Just drunk. He's not a junkie."

Again, with the same incredulous tone. I take a breath and count to ten, finally managing to stand up.

I don't bother with my long sleeved shirt when I pull the guy's body into my arms and lift him from the cold water. He's fully dressed, wet, and shivering. He groans slightly, as if in a dream, and I nearly drop him when he reaches for my neck and wraps his arms around me. I watch his face for a few seconds, worn out and stained by sadness, his extraordinary, blue eyes hiding behind his eyelids now. Then, I carefully take him to the bedroom.

It's scary how light he is in my arms.

"Fetch towels. As many as you can find."

The kid rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. It takes him a while to find the towels, but he lays some out on the bed. I put the blond guy down and gently take his arms from around my neck so he would release me. Then, I take the rest of the towels from the kid and start wrapping the guy in them, drying him clumsily along the way. I undress him, only leaving his shorts on. He's still asleep - or comatosed, who knows - and he doesn't wake when I pull the blankets over him.

"How long has he been out?" I ask, glancing at the kid quickly. He's sitting at the end of the bed, visibly bored. Gosh, I would love to ask so many questions, I can't even decide where to start.

The first would probably be about his disastrous bringing-up.

"I dunno," he shrugs, suddenly finding his nails very interesting. "The water was hot when he got in."

"Didn't you think about calling an ambulance?"

The kid shrugs again and I pass a hand over my face, my patience thinning.

"I can see you have your brother's delightful demeanour," I note bitterly. I receive a disgusted glare in return.

"He's not my brother."

I don't know why but I'm a little surprised to hear that. I don't see too many differences between them, aside from the colour of their hair but, then again, I didn't spend hours examining each one of them.

"He's my cousin."

I know he won't add anything else, so I just turn back to the blond guy and watch him shiver under the sheets. He's probably having a nightmare, but I'm not sure I want to wake him up. I'm just hoping that he doesn't have alcohol poisoning. That would make this a hundred times worse.

"What happened to him?" I ask before I could stop myself, but I don't look at the kid.

"Jesus, you are dumb. He's drunk."

I can feel the eyeroll behind the words. Again. I sigh.

"Why did he drink this much?"

"It's none of your business."

I look at him now and, for only a split second, I can see that he's afraid. Then, it's gone behind a mask of childish stubbornness, and I just spread my arms with a tilt of my head.

"Alright."

I don't feel like dealing with this brat for longer than necessary tonight, so I turn around and make my way towards the exit. His voice stops me in the doorway.

"He needs company. He won't admit it. And I can't come anymore," the kid says, his voice low, like he's forcing every word out of himself. I turn around and look at him. He seems too young for the look in his eyes. "Come over sometimes. Make sure he's not sick."

Then, he swallows and tears his eyes from me. He doesn't want me to see him cry, so I pretend, with my stomach twirling, that I can't see it.

"Please."

There is silence for a while and suddenly I feel bad for him, but I know there is little I can do for him. He doesn't seem like the type to accept more help than what's necessary, and the only reason he didn't call an ambulance is because he probably shouldn't be here witnessing this in the first place. I'm not here to complicate his night even more - yet, I feel bad about it.

"If you need anything, you know where to find me."

I can't think of anything else to say, so I just walk out the door slowly. I see in detail what I passed by when I barged in: the clothes and the garbage everywhere, the food and drink stains on the carpet and the couch, the obvious fact that this flat hasn't been cleaned in weeks. I smell something really bad when I walk by the kitchen, so I quicken my steps and pull in the door after me once I'm out on the corridor again.

I don't go straight back to my flat. I take a detour and check the letter-boxes on the ground floor. Under 314, I see two names there: Laurent and Auguste Vereen.

Auguste is scratched off almost completely.

  
*

  
The next morning, I do what the kid asked me to do.

Before work, I knock on the blond guy's door. I expect even minutes to pass until it'd open - instead, the blond spreads it wide open in front of me after two seconds. I'd lie if I said I'm not scared shitless when I see his face.

He looks like he's been through hell. Twice.

"It's you," he states, his voice an octave deeper than when I last heard him. He speaks like it causes him physical pain, and I'm not exactly surprised. I've had my fair share of hangovers myself, I can only imagine the headache he's nursing at the moment. One does not take a bath fully clothed after just one beer.

"I won't bother you for too long, I've got to go to work," I start with my hands raised in defense. He just looks slightly more confused at that, staring at my hands like he needs to process what the gesture means. "I just wanted to check up on you."

"Why?"

He seems genuinely oblivious, and I hesitate for a moment. I should've guessed he wouldn't remember. He wasn't even conscious.

"I just--" I'm not sure how to put it. Based on how I would feel in his stead, it might not be the best way to begin some kind of weird whatevership with him if I told him about last night. I would make him feel humiliated. No one likes that. Especially not this guy, from what I can gather. "I heard some noises yesterday. I wanted to make sure everything was okay."

I can see it on his face that he's torn between believing me or not, but I hold my pokerface. It eventually buys him and he switches back from confusion to his usual bitchface.

"You are very caring, all of a sudden. Do you have the hots for me?"

 _I kinda do,_ my first choice of answer would be. Yet, I keep my mouth shut, even though the heat in my cheeks probably gives me away immediately. _I just wish you weren't such an asshole,_ I add, just to make an attempt to calm myself down.

"I just don't think we started out on the right note," I change the subject diplomatically. He doesn't move an inch. "My name is Damen."

I hold my hand out for him, although I'm fairly sure he won't take it. I'm suddenly weak in the knees when, after a few moments of hesitation, he does. His hand is warm in mine, a lot softer than I expected, and I stop breathing right away.

"Laurent," he says, his voice somewhat different than so far. It doesn't have that edge anymore, and it almost feels like some sort of fragile trust. I'm well aware of how ridiculous it is to think that, but I can't help myself.

I smile a little and squeeze his hand.

He stares at me for only three more seconds before he pulls his hand away quickly, like he's being burned.

"You're going to be late for work," he tears his gaze from me, pointing it at the floor instead. My smile slowly fades and I realize that he's actually right about that. I take a step back, then two, and I inhale deeply.

"I will see you around, then."

It's probably the lamest thing I could say, but I'm glad when he doesn't comment on it, he just nods and then closes the door slowly.

  
*

  
"They kicked you out?"

I run my finger over the side of the glass and blink heavily. It's the first round of a - hopefully - short night when I pass out very early from drinking too much and curse myself the next day. And the day after that. And after that. For being hungover, and also, for not having a job.

"I was fifteen minutes late," I mutter, feeling miserable just by saying it out loud. "Mack was also convinced that I only kept going back for his precious whiskey."

"He stores whiskey in the workshop?" Nick's eyebrows rise in surprise, and I let out a bitter laugh before raising the glass to my lips. And people say I'm the naive one.

"His son lives with him. And apparently he's a big drunkard, which means-- Do we really have to talk about this right now?"

"Sorry."

I sigh and drink again. It's just beer, but I would feel sorry to spend the little money that I still have on anything more expensive. I just hope it will get me dazed enough so this knot in my stomach would disappear for a few hours.

I know I'm just kidding myself. I would get dazed sooner if I just let someone punch me in the face real hard.

"I mean it, Damen," Nick leans forward, and I look up, almost surprised to see him. For a moment, I forgot about his presence completely. "I'm sorry that this happened again."

"Are you fired again?"

My eyes fall shut at the sound of that voice, all too familiar and making me ache at the worst places. When I look behind Nick's shoulder, I see the blonde curls first as she leans down to pick something up. Then, she straightens, pushing her chest out, and I have to swallow. Hard.

Her blue eyes on me should feel soothing. They did, a few months ago. Now, they are just knives in my already aching stomach.

"Give him a break, Jo," Nick glances at her before he returns to cleaning the glasses meticulously. "He had a rough day."

"He always has rough days. What did you do this time?" she asks, grinning. Her eyes are not smiling with her. I can't remember her looking at me any differently, ever before. One of the reasons I liked her so much. She was never easy, and that lured me in like a lamp lures in the moth. I do feel like a moth right now, actually. "Did you fuck your boss's daughter? Oh, wait. You already did that."

Nick gives her a hard look, but I just smile down at my beer and don't even try to hide how I'm simply wallowing in self-pity right now. I don't do this usually, but whenever it happens, Jo is always there somehow.

She doesn't speak again for a minute or so while I empty my glass and push it towards Nick for a refill. Then, Jo slowly leans foward and puts her delicate elbows on the bar, suddenly way too close for my liking. Her perfume is still intoxicating.

It gets to my head, and I wish I could blame it on the beer. But one beer is not enough for that.

"You see that guy over there, Damen?" she asks softly, turning her head towards the booths lined up on my left.

Nick's pub is a small one that also serves food, and it's a good business, usually with regulars I could name just by looking at them. The boxes are mostly occupied by young university students and a few middle-aged men who come for the beer, just like me. It doesn't take long to spot the odd-one-out.

I can only see the back of his head and his white fingers peeking out the sleeve of his hoodie, given the strange posture he chose to lie on the table. He doesn't move, he just lies calmly, using his outstretched arm as a pillow. His hair is blond in an extraordinary shade, and I furrow my brows as I strain my eyes to get a better look at his figure.

Jo keeps talking beside me.

"For the past week, he's been here every night, not leaving until we kicked him out after hours. He drinks himself useless, then, he falls asleep on the table," Jo says on a conversational tone. I sense when she finishes her little intro to what she really wants to say and I turn back to her, only to meet the same malevolent smile she always addresses to me. "If you're lucky, you can share his booth sooner than you think."

"I can't believe that idiot is back," Nick catches up on our quiet, pretty much one-sided conversation, and drops the cloth in his hand on the counter. "I told him yesterday that we weren't a fucking inn. I should call the cops."

I look back at the booth with the same expression I've had on my face for the past couple minutes now. The familiarity of the figure and the hair keeps bothering me, and I feel like a fool when I finally realize that I'm looking at my neighbour.

The very reason I was late this morning. The reason why I don't have a job anymore.

"But you won't," I turn back to Nick without acknowledging anything that Jo just said to me. I slowly slide off my chair but Nick's confused voice stops me.

"And why's that?"

I turn to him and start backing away from the bar and towards Laurent's booth.

"Two words: 11th grade."

That puts a dumbfounded expression on Nick's face before he slowly cracks a smile and shakes his head. I don't see anything he does after that because I'm turned towards Laurent, stopping next to his table and watching him. It's stupid, but I'm relieved when I see his shoulders rising and falling steadily.

Apparently I chose the wrong profession when I decided I wanted to fix cars. Not like it's any news, really.

"Hey," I say gently, putting a hand on the guy's shoulder. He doesn't react so I shake him a little.

I don't expect him to sit up with the speed and horror that he does. He stares up at me like I'd just planted a knife in his back, and I can tell that it takes him a few seconds to recognize me, to take my presence in and calm down.

His eyes are so full of terror, my stomach drops at the sight.

"What?" he asks, dryly. It sounds more like a statement than a question, and I blink twice before I open my mouth for an answer.

"It's time to go home."

"I will decide about that."

I have a wave of déja vu when I remember his cousin from yesterday. They couldn't deny they are related, even if they tried.

"The owner of this place has already decided for you." It doesn't seem to touch him, he just keeps staring ahead of himself, empty and... little. He's small like this, in a hoodie, almost hollow. It makes me uneasy. "There is more booze at my place if you insist on drinking."

Obviously, there is no booze at my place, and even if I had any, I wouldn't offer it to this guy. I felt bad enough as it is, leaving him with a twelve year old yesterday. I don't want to seal his fate by making sure he gets alcohol poisoning. He doesn't look like the type who could go endless days drinking himself unconscious without his body taking a toll on him. He already looks like crap.

Magnificent crap, but still, just crap.

"You want me to go with you to your place?" Laurent asks, his words only a little blurred. I can't imagine how much willpower it takes to speak coherently after the amount of alcohol he consumed in the past few days. "I don't even know who the fuck you are."

"I'm your neighbour."

"Really?"

Another reaction that sounds like a statement. I smile without humour and watch him as he turns his head towards me. His gaze is on my chest.

"We talked this morning."

He takes his time but, from the way his pale brows slowly furrow, I can guess that he might remember something.

"Darren, right?" he raises his eyes to mine and I smile again. With a little more humour.

"Close enough." I reach out to grab his elbow and I half expect him to pull away. He doesn't, he just follows my movements slowly with his head. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

He lets himself be helped out of the booth, and he doesn't want to murder me with his gaze when I keep an arm around him on our way towards the exit. I stop at the bar to drop a few bucks in front of Nick, his face not impressed at all. Jo winks and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"I will reserve the booth for the two of you tomorrow."

With my free hand, I flip her off before we walk out of the pub.

  
*

  
The first thing Laurent does when we arrive at my flat is throwing up.

I notice how pale and green his face is just in time so I could usher him to the bathroom. I'm not fast enough to push him in front of the toilet so he promptly pukes into my bathtub instead, which is just... Amazing.

When he's done, he sits on the floor like a child, wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. The lack of colour in his face reminds me of the former night again, the way he lay in that bathtub, completely broken. He's conscious now, though, and he looks so confused, I feel my heart pound heavily in my chest.

I really want to ask him what happened to him that put him here, but I can't find the words. Instead, I just reach down for him and help him up. He holds onto my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh weakly. I open the tap and nod towards the running water.

"Wash your face."

The defiance I saw in his eyes earlier is still there, but he does as I say. He washes his face and rinses his mouth, multiple times. He straightens with the ends of his curls and his eyelashes wet, and it's just really not the best time to feel attracted to his beauty. To be frank, it's the worst possible time ever.

He just puked into my bathtub. I should concentrate on that.

I pass him a towel and watch him dry his face, slowly, carefully, like every movement hurts. I can't help but make a mental note on how delicate his hands are, his skin the same ivory white as I remembered. He goes on for several seconds before he comes to a stop, his face buried in the towel. He stays like that for a long moment, breathing heavily, and I want to ask him if he's okay when I suddenly notice the trembling of his shoulder. Then, I hear the quiet sounds too.

He's crying. And after that, he's sobbing.

If I've been waiting for the appropriate time to give him a moment alone, I'm sure this is it. I leave the bathroom soundlessly and head for the kitchen with slow steps. I try to unhear the heartbroken sobs but it fills my mind, even though the rest of the flat is silent.

I come to the kitchen with the intention to make a cup of tea for him, but I can't find my strength to do it. My hand lingers over the water boiler for a few seconds before I just put my palms against the counter and lean against it, my head hanging low. The cool surface against my hands should help a little. It doesn't.

I didn't expect this to go the way it did. I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want to get caught up in this, because it never ends well. For me, at least. I always end up trying to fix others before I could fix myself. And I always end up being the one that needs fixing more afterwards.

I feel sick when nostalgia washes over me. I think about Jo. How we started out on the same note, in an almost identical situation as this. And how she ended up in someone else's bed, how that someone completely accidentally happened to be my brother. How I ended up without a job when her father kicked me out and fired me. How I ended up all alone, without prospects. How it still haunts me, even though it's been several months ago.

I'm the least qualified person to help Laurent with his problems. And yet, here we are. Him, puking in my bathtub and crying, and me, feeling responsible for him already.

I try to blame the kid and his sad eyes for it, but I know better than that. He's probably just as broken as his cousin.

I gather my strength and, with a huge sigh, put on some water to boil. By the time it's done, I can feel another presence in the kitchen, Laurent standing in the doorway on my right. His shoulders are hunched forward even more than usual, and his clothes are messy. I can't identify the stains from this distance, but I'd rather not anyway.

His eyes are only a little red from crying, but I try to not think about that.

"You can sit down in the living room," I offer quietly as I pour hot water in a mug. It says 'You're The Worst', courtesy of Nick for Christmas. I wouldn't give it to Laurent if I had any other mug, but I can't recall the last time I washed the dishes, so 'You Are The Worst' it is. "I'll be with you in a minute."

"Why are you doing this?"

His voice makes me look up again. He speaks like he hasn't used his voice in ages, hoarse and so different from his usual tone that it makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.

"Tea?"

"All of this."

I can tell he's sobered up enough to realize what's going on, so I take it as a good sign. I dip the tea bag in the water and turn to him slowly.

"You were unconscious in the bathtub yesterday. You probably scared the shit out of a 12-year-old, and you definitely scared the shit out of me," I explain calmly. He tears his gaze from mine, pinpointing a spot on my chest instead. He is not fond of eye-contact, I could gather this much. "Look, I don't know you. I don't know what's happening in your life. But what I know is that this is not the solution."

"There is no solution," he speaks quietly. He still avoids my eyes.

"So you will drink your liver away? Is it your plan?"

I can tell it's not. I can tell he doesn't have a plan. I can tell he doesn't have anything or anyone. And I can also tell that he's ashamed, so I just turn back to the tea and start dipping the teabag carefully. I feel his gaze on me, but I don't look at him. I just finish making the tea, dump the teabag in the garbage and pick up the mug.

"It always helps me with my hangovers."

He looks at the tea in my hands, then, up at me. It's a long, quiet minute before he slowly reaches out and takes the mug from me. He's careful not to touch me when he takes it. It's hot, but he doesn't seem to mind.

He looks at my chest again, and nods a little.

"Thank you."

I nod back with a faint smile. The signs of exhaustion are even more obvious from up close, the purple bags under his eyes, the lines at the corners of his mouth. His cheekbones cast shadows on his face, and his oversized grey hoodie makes him look like a ghost in the dim light of the kitchen.

"If you take those clothes off, I can give you some clean ones."

There is surprise in his eyes - then, the ever present confusion.

"I live next door."

"I know. I just don't think you should go back there tonight." I pause, watching his reaction. If my guesses are even a little close to the truth, his flat is one of the main causes of his misery. And I really don't feel like finding him unconscious in his bathtub again. "You can crash on my couch. It's comfortable."

"And smells like ass."

I smile at the way he says that, even though it's not the kindest thing to say to someone who tries to take care of you. It's the same edge in his voice I've heard the first time we met. It's a relief, somehow, to hear that.

"It doesn't."

I walk past him and into the living room. I collect the pillows to one side, trying to make it a little more comfortable. I'm aware of him staring at me, the mug still in his hands, like he walked into the wrong room by accident.

"I'm gonna fetch you some clothes. Make yourself comfortable."

I don't wait for his response. I walk to my bedroom and open the drawer, trying to figure out if I have clothes that fit him. We're definitely not the same size - he's slender and elegant where I'm thick and muscley. I'm also taller than him, so anything I give him will just hang awkwardly around his frame. I don't consider that a huge problem, so I pick out a simple white T-shirt that I use for sleeping with grey sweatpants. That will definitely not fit him, but I still throw it over my arm.

I don't rush out there just yet, though. First, I take a small detour to the bathroom, bracing myself for the smell and sight of puke, mentally preparing myself to clean it up soon. What I find instead is only the fading odour of it, and a clean bathtub.

Laurent cleaned up after himself. A crying mess, and he cleaned up all of it.

I stand dumbfounded in the middle of the bathroom, my jaw slightly hanging and my heart pounding a little harder. I'm not sure I've been ever this confused in my entire life, but it's not uncomfortable, and I can't help but smile as I slowly walk out of into the living room.

"You really shouldn't have--" I start as I turn around the corner, but I immediately stop speaking the moment I look at Laurent. I just wish he would stop surprising me constantly.

He's asleep. The tea is untouched on the table and he's lying on the couch, his head buried in the pillows. His hair is tucked behind his ear and he rests a hand next to his face on the pillow. He's breathing steadily, already deep in sleep just under three minutes, and I smile again. Seems like he really didn't want to go home after all.

I put the clothes on a chair as I approach him, then, I pick up a throw blanket that's laid all over the back of the couch. I remember the horror in Laurent's eyes when I last woke him, in the pub, so I cover him with the blanket very carefully this time. He doesn't even stir, he just breathes in deeply and exhales soundlessly. He looks peaceful like this, beautiful as always, and I stand there for longer than I probably should, just watching him.

When I realize I'm being a creep, I just turn off the lights and let him have his first proper sleep in who knows how long. I go to bed with him on my thoughts, again. He doesn't step on Legos this time, though.

  
*

  
When I wake up the next day, I realize three things. The first, Laurent is long gone. He folded the blanket and put it on the couch before he left, though. Which is nice, I guess. The second, I have 5 missed calls from Nick. The third, I don't have a job. And then there is a fourth realization about half an hour later: I ran out of coffee.

Which is probably the worst one out of the four.

"Did the pub burn down?" I ask without saying hi. There is noise in the background on the other end of the line, but there is always noise. The pub always means noise. "Also, why are you working this early? I thought Jo took the morning shifts."

"It's noon, Damen," he says flatly, and I look at the clock on my oven, surprised. It really is noon. This day just keeps getting better and better. "What happened last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were fired. There was a blond guy. You walked out like you were best buddies. Does it ring a bell?"

I look through the contents of my cupboards, looking for anything that could be edible without having to go grocery shopping. I slam the door to my last cupboard, irritated.

There is nothing, obviously.

"He was my neighbour. He still is. I-- happen to know that he's in a pretty bad place right now, so I help him out now and then."

"You help him out."

"Yes," I lean against the counter, passing a palm over my face with a sigh. "I do have a conscience, you know."

"No, you don't," I hear Jo's chirping voice from the background and I feel the horror rush through me immediately.

"Am I on speaker?" I ask. My voice is a little more hysterical than I would like.

Nick chuckles without humour. "I have to work, Damen."

Like that's a good excuse, I think to myself bitterly. It reminds me again that I still don't have a job.

Maybe I should just lie back to bed and never get up, like, ever again.

"So, what are you helping him out with?" Nick returns to the subject at hand, not at all smoothly.

"I promised his kid cousin I would watch over him. I think it's some family drama but I don't know him that well."

"I thought you swore not to get caught up in those ever again." I can hear the pointed look he gives Jo and I smile proudly. No wonder Nick and I have been best friends since 2nd grade. Sometimes I forget how much I owe him but, then again, I got his back once or twice myself as well. Like when he went through divorce with the girl he married when he was 18. I make sure to remind him with a regular 'I told you so' now and then ever since.

"I know. And I want to stay out of it. He's just a guy who happens to live next door."

"Yeah. Just a guy. Who happens to be exactly your type."

I ignore the blush that spreads from my chest, up to my neck, and into my cheeks, and I shake my head, like that could make it better. I also ignore the memory of standing by the couch, staring down at Laurent in awe of his beauty.

Needless to say, it's pretty difficult to pull off.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," I say, sulking that I was exposed on speakerphone, and I hear Nick chuckle lowly.

"Of course. But it might interest you that your crush is here again, this time with someone."

I hate the way my stomach drops and my heartbeat quickens at that. Suddenly, I don't feel hungry at all. Instead, I feel nervous and my palms get sweaty right away.

Swear to God, I feel like I'm back in 9th grade.

"Why would that interest me? He can go freely wherever he pleases, whenever he pleases." I'm terrible at lying and Nick knows that. Luckily or not, Jo's answering this time.

"It should interest you. If it's a date, which I'm pretty sure it is, he's really into old, bearded grandpas. And you aren't that, thank God, so you should move on," she chirps into the phone and I furrow my brows, confused.

"Why do you care all of a sudden? And why are you so sure it's a date?"

"Oh Damen, I've always cared about you," she sighs into the phone. Sarcasm is dripping from her voice and I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my skull. "And it's obvious. He looks so hot right now, I wouldn't have recognized him if Nick hadn't pointed him out."

"What?" It just slips out, probably louder than it should, but they don't pick up on it. Or they just ignore it.

"If yesterday's wear was a homeless person, today's wear is a Vogue model. Come over and check him out yourself if you want."

I might despise Jo for a lot of reasons and I might never trust her again, but I know she hates people. And she would definitely not say anything like this if it wasn't true, not even for the sake of shitting with me.

Which means that in five minutes I'm out of my flat and on my way to Nick's pub.

  
*

  
I don't even have to cross the doorway of the pub to see him.

The moment I get there, he and the other man with the beard are just about to leave. The man comes out first and I back down the few stairs that lead up to the door. He doesn't even acknowledge me, just walks past me, waves of arrogance rolling off him. The second I look into his eyes, I can tell this is not some strange kink for old men on Laurent's part. The same shade of piercing blue looks back at me that I'm already familiar with, and I can't help the relief I feel when I put two and two together.

They are related. It's obvious.

And that's about the last thing I care about when Laurent follows the bearded man, pushing through the doorway confidently. It takes me a second longer to recognize him than what I would've thought, and I can't help myself as my jaw drops immediately.

There is no bad posture, no shoulders hunched forward, no purple bags under his eyes, no messy hair. He wears a grey, expensive looking coat, his hair is immaculate and he smells like some high-end perfumery. His legs are long and slender in the tight jeans and he has a black scarf around his neck, a perfect contrast to his blond head.

I feel like a peasant standing next to him. Especially when he stops and stares at me, the shock in his eyes very obvious.

Funnily, the first thing that comes to my mind is that he really does look like a Vogue model. And the next thing is that Nick was right.

I have a huge fucking problem when it comes to blonds with blue eyes.

"Hi," I say, but even this one word sounds lame from my mouth. I'm aware of the nervous smile on my lips but it's my coping mechanism at the moment. Coping with shock, and coping with a stirring boner.

It's not helpful that the old man is standing only a few feet away, staring at us with zero patience on his face. (Well, maybe helpful with my boner.)

"Hi," he says, his voice airy and just as surprised as mine. It doesn't really ease my anxiety, but at least I can keep smiling just yet. "How are you?"

My heart leaps at the question, and this is stupid, so stupid, but I just can't stop smiling. If he's been beautiful so far, I can't find words to describe him now. He looks otherworldly, and I can only imagine what Nick sees through the window.

Probably what I really am. An idiot with a crush on his neighbour. At least now that he's seen him from up close too, he can't blame me.

"I'm... great," I manage to blurt out and I shove my hands in my pockets. Mostly to hide how they shake from nervousness. "How are you? Could you sleep or did the smell of ass keep you awake all night?"

It's probably the first time I see him smile. It's small and almost gets past my attention but it's there, and my heart skips a beat again. His eyes sparkle when he looks at me.

"I slept very well. I wasn't the best guest so I'm... sorry about that."

The way he says it, I'm pretty sure he doesn't apologize very often. I shake my head a little, like it's stupid even to talk about it.

"Laurent."

The man's voice comes so suddenly it completely catches me off-guard. I almost forgot he was there. Laurent's smile is gone immediately and he looks back at the man with a nod.

"Just a second, Uncle. Get in the car."

 _Uncle._ I knew they were related.

When he turns back to me, his usual sharp tones are back, and there is no sign of a smile or his earlier confusion. He also has his hands in his pockets and he looks at me without any emotion whatsoever. I feel my own smile falter.

"I have to go," he says, an air of finality in his voice, and he is already moving towards the car. I would love to say so many things to him, but it's hard to find the right words when I know I only have three seconds to decide.

Then I say 'fuck it', just like every single time before making a big decision.

"Laurent!"

He stiffens the moment I say his name and he turns around slowly. His face is still hard but his eyes hold something that I can't put my finger on.

"I will be home... tonight. I thought about rewatching an early season of Modern Family. If you want to join..." My voice lacks confidence completely and I would love to punch myself in the face for it. Particularly that Laurent's face is the same. He doesn't even look surprised. I don't know which is worse: clear repulse or this. "I will have some pizza too."

I almost flinch at that last part, so obviously desperate that I actually close my eyes for a second so I wouldn't have to see the refusal written all over Laurent's face. When I open my eyes, there is no refusal.

There is only a small dimple in the corner of his mouth, some resemblance to his earlier smile. It makes my knees weak and my lungs crave for air.

He gives me a small nod before he gets into the car, and I stand there, staring at the Honda until it disappears on the corner.

Nick and Jo can't take their eyes off me as I make my way towards the bar, but I only look at them when I crash onto the chair and take a deep, shaky breath.

"How bad is it?" I ask, not actually ready to hear the answer.

They both smile, and I'm horrified to see that Jo's is just as real as Nick's. He answers, thankfully, before she could:

"Dude, you are doomed."

And that's something all three of us can agree on.

  
*

  
I'm just about to fall into my bed, ready to never get up again, when I hear the knock on my door.

It's way past midnight and I've already fallen asleep three times in front of the TV when I accepted the fact that Laurent wasn't coming. It's not like that hasn't happened before. It definitely happened and I'm not exactly surprised it happened again. I didn't come off as the extremely confident type whom anyone would gladly date, might an opportunity arise. Yet, it doesn't mean I'm not disappointed that I had to eat the entire pizza on my own and humourlessly chuckle at the jokes I heard on Modern Family. I'm really disappointed.

I'm just not surprised.

So I decided to go to bed, instead of continuing to wallow in my self-pity. Which doesn't end up with me being in the bed. At all.

It ends up with me opening the door at 2 AM to Laurent, who has a huge bluish-purple shiner around his left eye, yet, still manages to make my heartbeat quicken in a second.

"What the hell happened to you?"

He doesn't look at me first, only at my chest, like always. His hair is a little messy, and I spot a cut on his lip too in the dim light of the corridor. He leans against the doorframe heavily, like it's hard for him to stand straight, and I have to admit, I'm getting more and more concerned the longer I'm looking at him.

He exhales loudly and closes his eyes for a split second. As far as I can tell, he's not drunk now, which I consider to be an improvement.

"I shouldn't even be here," he murmurs, his voice small in the silence of the stairway. He's still avoiding my eyes, but I can see him taking me in with a long look. Suddenly I understand that he noticed my sleeping clothes, and I feel a rush of panic wash over me.

I've been waiting for him for hours, mostly hopelessly. Now that he's here, there is definitely no way I'm gonna let him go.

"You came here for a reason," I make an attempt at sounding normal. I wonder how well that goes. Probably not well at all. "You could just come in."

The moment his gaze rises to mine, the bottom of my stomach falls out and my limbs go numb completely. His eyes are crystal blue and I feel like they see through me without any difficulty. I try not to think of anything so I wouldn't expose myself, but it's pretty hard to do that when he looks at me like that.

I think he knows that too.

I stand aside from the door awkwardly, nodding with my head and sending him a small, nervous smile. I really don't have any idea why I act like I'm 14 and I'm trying to woo a girl 3 years older than me, but I feel like I could blow every chance I've ever had with him in the next five seconds. I decide to shut my mouth and just watch him as he walks inside, unbuttoning his coat. If he really is in pain, it doesn't show in his movements.

I'm a little taken aback when the coat and black scarf reveal a fine black shirt underneath, and I try my best not to groan when he turns around and the smell of his cologne hits me. I try to think of sad things, like Jo, or how I have no prospects in life, but it's difficult to kill desire once it stirs. It's like a beast awaken, and the fact that it's the second time today only makes it more complicated.

"Did I wake you?" he asks calmly as I hang his coat, glad to have an excuse to turn away from him for a second while I pull myself together.

"Not yet." When I turn back to him, I'm a little more confident and I decide to let him know that too. "What happened to you?"

I can tell he's struggling to keep his eyes on me. I'm waiting for his answer patiently until he finally gives in and sighs shortly.

"I had an... argument."

"I figured. Who hurt you?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me."

It's out before I could think about it and he looks at me with slightly wider eyes, like it's the first time someone's ever cared about him. I feel a flush in my cheeks and I'm glad I didn't switch the lights on in the living room. He might not spot it like this.

"Why?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. I keep blinking like an idiot, hand on my hips. How on Earth do I answer that when I keep asking the same question from myself all the time?

It would be so easy to just... go ahead and kiss him. To shut his mouth with mine so he wouldn't ask more questions. So he would understand that I care because I like him. I don't even know him, but it wouldn't matter, because he couldn't ask questions. Because I would be kissing him, and hopefully he would be kissing me. And that would solve everything.

But I'm not kissing him, and he's waiting for an answer. So it's my turn to stare at the ground and just sigh, my stomach trembling more and more with every second.

"You puked into my bathtub and slept on my couch. And now... you are here. In my flat." I look up at him slowly, expectantly, like this would be enough of an answer for him. I desperately hope it would be, because I'm physically unable to utter any more words at the moment without choking on my own tongue.

He stares at me for a very long time before he presses his lips together into a hard, thin line, and I can only imagine the expression I must have on my face. Like a dying man, probably. At least that's how I feel.

We would be a funny sight for an outsider.

"It was my uncle," he says, gritting the words through his teeth like it's a torture. My heart painfully clenches, but I don't say a word and I definitely don't let it show on my face. "He hit me."

He doesn't look at me while saying it, and the tension that radiates from his entire posture makes me feel like we have an invisible wall between us. I can't help but remember Nick's words, about not getting caught up in other people's family drama, and it would be the best moment to take that advice. But I know it's too late, because I'm already a part of it. Because Laurent just could've gone home easily, ignoring me, forgetting about our encounter in front of the pub. He could wallow in self-pity, just like me. He could be getting drunk again at this very moment.

He isn't. He is standing only a few feet from me, talking to me. And I can't help but feel the urge to smile at that, because for once in my life, I did the right thing when I took him from the pub.

Obviously, I don't smile. I just look at him for a very long time before I decide it would be the best to change the subject now that he probably won't add anything.

"Do you need ice for your eye?" I ask, trying to sound kind and not too pushy. He slowly turns his head to me and watches me, like I'm some creep from the streets offering him drugs.

Then, when I'm about to walk past him towards the kitchen to get him some ice anyway, he grabs my elbow and holds me back, his fingers firm around my arm.

I don't have time to process everything that's happening. All I know is that my stomach is the size of a knot when I stop and turn around, and then simply nonexistent when he reaches for the back of my neck with his other hand and pulls me in for a kiss.

His lips are soft and needy against mine, his kiss a strong press against my mouth. His hand is trembling on the nape of my neck, but he holds me steadily and my eyes roll into the back of my head as I breathe him in, a desperate need for oxygen. My lungs are filled with him instead, and he's in my veins before I know it. He doesn't deepen the kiss, it's just that firm press for a couple more seconds, and he only relaxes a little when I touch the small of his back, almost too careful not to scare him off. Instead of being scared, he steps a little closer, his chest brushing against mine, and I wonder how the entire house isn't pulsating with my heartbeats.

He's tense under my palm and his hair is soft when I touch his face. Then, he slowly pulls back before I could taste him, and we look at each other from up close, his big blue eyes terrified as he catches his breath.

I haven't even noticed that he hasn't been breathing.

"I need--" he starts, choking on the words halfway. He stops and closes his eyes for a second, shaking his head like his thoughts are trying to make his mind explode. Nothing that comes to his lips is good enough, so he keeps opening and closing his mouth, already trying to back away from me.

I slide my hand closer into his hair and my thumb is on his lower lip, gently brushing against the cut he has there. He still has his eyes closed when I shush him quietly, but he stops trying to back away, trembling in my arm instead. His palm on my shoulder feels warm and a steady presence that belongs there, like it's always belonged there.

He's so beautiful, it nearly drives me crazy. And I want to kiss him, I want to kiss him until all of his scars are healed.

"I don't want to talk," he whispers, his voice shaking. "I just want it to be quiet."

"We don't have to talk," I shake my head a little and I wait until he slowly opens his eyes. They are a little less scared now, but they are still full with pupil. I brush my fingertips lightly over the bruises on his face. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

When his hand slides back to cup my face, I can't help but look at his mouth, as if breathing in the same air he breathes out doesn't already remind me how close he is to me. When he closes the distance between us and kisses me again, I open my lips underneath his in obedience, allowing him in with the tilt of my head. He talks to me in kisses instead of words and I'm surprised how clearly I understand him, how quickly I find his rythym and learn his language. What I learn is extraordinary.

He is a slow kisser. His touches are lingering, slow, but mark me like the burns of a cigarette. He likes my touch behind his ear, and he gently tugs on my hair when he wants me to capture his pulse with my mouth, my tongue pressing against the soft skin on his neck. When he finds his way back to my mouth, he says even more, louder than before, the only response he's drawing out of me being moans and sighs between kisses.

When we fall, crashing down on the living room couch loudly, he represses the noise with a moan of his own, and I let him climb all over me. He pushes his hips against mine with desperation and I wrap my arms around his frame, sitting up with him in my lap. His erection is just as obvious as mine, but he's wearing a tighter pair of jeans, which I help him with when I unbutton it and pull the zipper down. He is the one biting on my neck now, and I let my head fall back without fighting it. I pull his hips against mine again and again, the friction is nearly too wonderful to bear, and I groan when he reaches under my sleeping shirt, his fingers sliding over my nipples.

I want to say his name but I can't find my voice. I pull down his jeans instead, right until I'm touching skin instead of clothes, and he growls, pressing his cock against my stomach in need.

"Fuck," he mutters, his fingers digging into my shoulders painfully, but I don't care. I hold him close around his waist with one arm and reach between us with the other until I find my way under his shirt and to his stomach.

When he tenses and grabs my wrist, my eyes fly open and I meet his gaze, an unspoken apology already on my lips.

"Don't," he heaves. His voice doesn't hold any resentment, he just gently lets go of my wrist and leans closer in until he's kissing me again. It's too soft too sudden, and I'm scared I've done something wrong when I notice he's stopped rocking his hips against mine. I kiss him back, savouring the taste of him and resting my hands next to me on the couch while he buries both of his hands in my hair.

It takes him a minute until he starts pressing against me again, very slowly at first, and I remember that he loves gentle, slow movements that take time and attention. It nearly tears me to shreds, the need to touch him versus the need to see him come apart without me touching him. It's equally just as beautiful to watch: the way his lips slightly part as he leans his head back, the line of his throat a magnificent plain of ivory in front of me.

"Yes," he breathes, his voice almost otherworldly. He slides his palms across my chest, then, with one hand, he reaches down to my own aching erection and wraps his fingers around it through my sleeping pants. I groan and bite down on my lip so I wouldn't buck my hips into his hand instinctively.

He handles me with certainty and I feel him push my cock against his as he rocks. He trembles and I can't help but raise my hands to his sides, very carefully, my fingers shaking from the force to keep my movements slow. He presses his lips together to suppress a moan, then, they open again and his eyes fall closed.

"Damen, I--" The way he says my name just before his voice breaks is almost enough in itself to push me over the edge. Then, he squeezes his hand lightly around our cocks and grabs a handful of my hair at the same time, right before he finally falls apart.

He comes onto my shirt with a moan, trembling in my arms like a leaf, and I follow him close behind, ruining my pants with his name dying on my lips. The world narrows into white space as he keeps moving his hand until I finish - and then, he leans forward to bury his face in my neck. I feel him breathe me in and I know I smile like a fool, placing a palm behind his neck gently.

I'm still trembling with the aftershock when he raises his arm tentatively. My heart starts beating heavily when he wraps it around my neck and holds me close, like he never wants to let me go again.

And honestly, I'm fine with that. I'm more than fine.

  
*

  
The next morning I wake up on the couch.

It might be a tendency with me that I realize basic facts right after waking up. Like that I'm having a blanket over me I'm pretty sure I didn't put on myself. Or that the small space next to me smells familiar and is warm against my touch. Or that Laurent is sitting in the end of the couch, knees pulled up, silently staring ahead.

If he notices me sitting up, he doesn't show it. I doubt I can stop showing how happy I am that he hasn't left, though.

"Hey," I greet him, my voice low and hoarse from sleep. I run my fingers through my hair and rub my eyes a little, and when I look at him again, he's already turned to me. The moment I look into his eyes, a wave of warmth washes over me. Suddenly I can't stop thinking about the way he kissed me, the way he held onto me, the way he lay close to me on the couch after we cleaned ourselves up, the way his breathing evened out after a few minutes.

I'm aching with the need to touch him, but I fight the urge and just give him a small smile instead.

"Hi," he says, quiet and careful. He doesn't smile back, but the lines on his face are soft, and his eyes are full of emotions I can't quite identify.

"Are you hungry?"

The bruise around his eye is still playing in ugly colours, but his striking blue eyes are distracting enough that I don't keep looking at it. He looks like he wants to say something but he can't find the words. I can tell it frustrates him, but I wait silently, purposefully keeping my breathing slow and steady.

"No," he mutters, his lips parted even after the answer is already out. I can tell it's not what he wanted to say. His face is like an open book now, and it's new and strange, like I'm meeting a new person. Then, "What are we doing, Damen?"

The way he says my name sends a jolt of electricity through me. He says it so gently, it drives me crazy. I swallow hard and glance at the cut on his lip. I remember kissing it yesterday. I want to do it again desperately.

"We're--" My voice falters when I realize I can't finish the sentence. Then, after a few seconds of staring, I settle with the first thing that comes into my mind. "We're getting to know each other."

He looks like I just kicked him in the stomach.

"Are we?"

"Yes."

"I haven't learnt much yet," he shakes his head a little, his voice barely above a whisper. I smile faintly, or at least I think I do. I can't really control my body at the moment.

"You came to me last night," I say gently. "You could've gone home, but you came to me."

"Because you invited me."

"We both know that's not why you came."

There is silence after that, deafening silence where I only hear my own rapid heartbeat. Then, I push the blanket to the side and slide closer to him. His relaxed stance immediately changes and he's tense again, more and more the closer I get.

When I'm sitting next to him, legs crossed on the couch and close enough to feel the heat of his body, I look deeply into his eyes again.

He's scared and it hurts me. Everywhere.

"Laurent, I'm not going to hurt you," I murmur, my voice as earnest as I can get. And I mean every word. I meant it when I decided to do as his cousin asked, I meant it when I decided to take care of him, I meant it when he fell apart in my arms last night. I don't know why, I don't know how, but he grew on me. And I would never hurt him. Never knowingly. "You can trust me."

I think about the man I've been seeing, walking in and out of Laurent's flat. I think about the mailbox downstairs, with the name scratched off. I think about the bearded man, his uncle, hitting him. I think about the look on Laurent's face when he saw me the day before, the way he smiled at me. I think about the way he told me he didn't want to talk.

I wish I could touch him now, but I don't dare. I just wait, calmly, even when he glances at my lips for a split second. I see how hard he fights to hide the trembling of his body.

Then, he nods once, almost too uncertain to be considered a movement at all. I nod back and let him reach for me with one hand, already leaning in before he could touch me.

When he kisses me, my mind runs blank. It's so gentle, even more than the day before. I think twice before I raise my hand to his side, sliding my hand back towards his shoulderblade to pull him closer carefully. His response is another kiss, his tongue meeting my own, and he holds me by the back of my neck, his palm is warm and firm.

He might not trust me now, not completely at least. But I'm willing to wait, and I'm willing to prove.

We might as well just fix each other in the meantime.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that wasn't an easy one to write. But I'm happy about the outcome and I hope you all enjoyed it just as much as I enjoyed writing it! :) 
> 
> I'm willing to write more to it, if anyone is interested, since I know I didn't quite explain everything. I didn't stray too much from the original, basic storyline, but there are still details I wish I could've included somehow. So let me know if you're interested in some backstory! :)
> 
> Also, definitely tell me what you thought of the last book! I consumed it in a day, and I liked it so damn much - still, my all time favourite in the trilogy is Prince's Gambit. Sorry not sorry. That can't be overthrown for me.
> 
> Thank you for reading, guys! <3


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